


Stripping Sebastian

by Shayvaalski



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Knives, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Suit Porn, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-01
Updated: 2012-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-31 23:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/349601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shayvaalski/pseuds/Shayvaalski
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Moriarty cuts Seb Moran out of his suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stripping Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

  * For [andthebluestblue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthebluestblue/gifts).



_and you rip out all I have_

_just to say that you've won_

 

 

 

Sebastian never used to think about how he looked. 

This changed, when he started working for Jim.

It’s not that he  _cares_ , exactly, about his own body in the suits; he supposes they look good, and objectively, he has exactly the right build to pull off vest and suspenders and the neat lines of Westwoods, and he likes the feeling of Jim straightening his ties. But he has little to no concept of his own attractiveness; when he looks at them together in the mirror, Jim smaller and slight with his hair perfectly done, and him tall and broad across the shoulders, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, he has trouble seeing much of a difference. 

He learns to, though.

Seb realizes something is wrong when Jim slams his face into the mirror. The glass flexes, shatters, and he feels his lip start to bleed. It’s not that this hasn’t happened before--this is their fourth mirror this year--but there’s something different going on. Usually, by this point, Jim is licking off the blood and they are halfway to the bed, because this is what he gets off on, the violence of it, and hell, Seb does too, but this time Moriarty is just standing there, breathing hard, waiting.

“Fuckin’  _hell,_ boss--” is all he gets out before Jim grabs his tie and half-throws, half-drags him to the floor. This at least is familiar territory, and he goes down choking, relieved, knowing what comes next and how the next few minutes will go. Seb reaches out to set his fingers into Jim’s collar in order to yank him closer, needing him, needing the security of madness.

Jim isn’t there. 

He’s still in the room somewhere because the noises Jim makes in this mood are completely unmistakable, a sort of low, tigerish snarl punctuated by things breaking and cloth ripping, and Seb just waits. Usually, after maybe thirty seconds of this, Jim will come back, will either strike him full across the face or have forgotten all about it. In thirty seconds Seb will be back on ground he knows. 

A minute passes, and this is too strange for him to be comfortable with, or too ordinary. Taking a minute away from the situation is how normal people work out their anger, and this is Moriarty. Seb picks himself from the ground, loosens his tie, tries to see what Jim is doing.

Jim is destroying, methodically, every single one of Sebastian’s suits. 

“Boss--”

“Shut _up_.” A seam rips and Jim groans. There is a crash. “Shut up and  _don’t move_ or I will _shred_  you, Sebby, I swear I will.” He is not even looking at Sebastian, just slamming open the doors of all the wardrobes in the room and flinging clothes onto the floor, shuddering, all the veins in his neck and temples standing out. 

The threat is new, but the rage is not. Seb stays down, sitting cross-legged and straight-backed, wrists resting lightly on his knees. He doesn’t care. The suits aren’t really important to him, the same way he doesn’t really care about his haircut or his shoes or anything except his gun and Jim, always and forever Jim, and he can wait this out if he needs to. If Jim needs him to. He has waited silent unmoving hours before, in the desert, up a tree with a goat bleating below him, feeling sand leak down his back and bark dig its way into his belly. He understands this kind of patience. 

Jim has left the room, and come back, and in his hands are garden shears and kitchen knives and the machete Seb brought him back from a hit in Ecuador, the straight razors from the bathroom and Seb’s favorite jackknife. Sebastian has to grit his teeth not to ask for it back; Jim has told him to shut up and he will not speak, and it any case he doesn’t want it so badly as to have it embedded in his flesh.

Because that  _is_  what will happen. He knows this the way he knows that the night is going to end with someone’s blood soaking into the sheets, with the bed slamming so hard against the wall that it dents the plaster.  _This is the law of the Jungle--as old and as true as the sky._  Things can go no other way. 

Jim screams and a shirt flutters into ribbons. Buttons rain onto the floor, tiepins and cufflinks bounce and roll under the bed and chairs and into Sebastian’s crossed legs. He is at the eye, all but untouched, waiting for the storm to pass him over. The room is full of wrecked clothes and Moriarty, panting, shuddering, his own shirt damp with sweat and his tie askew. There is only so much left to destroy. 

The ruins of another jacket hit the wall, and Jim is bleeding freely. Sebastian doesn’t know if the wound was an accident or purposeful but it doesn't matter; everything is overridden and irrelevant, and he has exactly one job to do. 

“Boss,” he says, the next time Moriarty is within arms reach. “Boss,  _easy.”_  And Seb reaches up to grab Jim’s wrist, preparing for the jerk backwards that he knows will come, relying on it to help him to his feet. 

Sebastian is almost halfway up, moving smoothly, when Moriarty’s knee crashes into his chest and his wrist somehow slips out of Seb’s grip. There is an inexplicable, physics-defying moment where Seb feels like he is hanging in midair, trying to get the situation to fit in with the way things usually go, before he lands in broken glass and shredded suits, Jim astride his hips. A seam pops. Cloth tears. Jim groans. 

There is a knife in the hand that leans into Sebastian, the flat of it pressing against his belly, and Seb goes very, very still. There’s three layers between his skin and the blade--undershirt, linen button-down, suit jacket--but Seb sharpens these knives himself and none of these layers are going to be a problem if Jim decides today’s the day to gut him. 

“Sebby baby,” says Jim, voice low and hoarse, eyes the kind of black that make no sense on a human being. “I did tell you.” 

The knife rips up and Seb cries out.

And then gasps, desperately, for air, because there’s no blood, his skin is untouched, and it’s only the cloth of his jacket and shirt and undershirt that is suddenly in shreds. Jim is laughing into his neck, high and bubbling and mad, the knife pressed between them, and Sebastian feels himself getting hard against the other man. His hands clutch at Jim, and then Jim says, “I don’t  _think_  so,” and is sliding himself backward and slicing down. This time Seb doesn’t scream, even as the belt and trousers part like flesh and the knife skirts dangerously close to his cock and then down the length of his leg. 

Moriarty, nothing if not methodical in his madness, turns the other trouser leg into ribbons before throwing the knife carelessly to the side. Seb isn’t clever, but he’s not stupid enough to move as Jim sits back on his heels, loosens his tie, and carefully smoothes back his hair. 

“Now  _Seb,”_ and oh,  _fuck,_  Sebastian was  _wrong,_  because this is the dangerous voice, the one he only uses when somebody has Sincerely Fucked Up, and the last time Seb heard him say something in this tone he was finding fingers in unexpected places for three days, and it is now, and only now, that he is almost afraid. Jim’s hands are against him, one knotted in his ruined collar, one at the base of his cock, and the threat and caress combined make him moan and arch his hips into the touch. Jim strokes him, a little too hard, and then lifts him by the collar and slams his head against the floor. His other hand keeps moving, and then Jim is on him, jerking him off and kissing him and then biting so hard there is blood and just as Seb is about to come Jim lets go and cracks him across the face with all the strength in his wiry body. 

Sebastian has no idea when he picked up the belt buckle but he feels it bruise and split the skin over his cheekbone, and  _fuck_ , he is still hard and he is  _so close_  and then Jim is dragging Seb half upright by the tie still knotted around his neck and hissing, “Say you’re _sorry,_  tiger.”

“Boss, I don’t--”

“Wrong.” Jim drops him, and then he is straddling Seb, his own erection pressing against Seb’s chest, and the blow comes a second time so that his temple over the old scar is bleeding once again. “Not so pretty  _now,”_ Jim half-groans, and loosens his own belt. 

And then--in one of the flashes of intuition that have allowed Sebastian to keep himself alive so far--he knows. Moriarty, so delicate, so careful of his suits, his ties, the subtle polished sheen of expensive leather shoes, everything on its own hanger or rack or drawer, the attentive way he shaves each morning, the fifteen kinds of soap and the movement of the comb through his expensively-cut hair, his eyes on Sebastian in the mirror this morning turning dark, this man who never looks anything but perfect, is ready to kill over someone looking just the slightest bit better than him. 

“Boss,” he says, feeling the rags of his suit against his chest and hips, the blood slipping down and pooling at the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“It had better fucking  _not,_  Sebby.” Some of the killing rage has gone out of his voice--not all, but enough for Seb to put his hands to the zipper of Jim’s trousers and undo them without being smashed once more against the floor. Jim is pressing a piece of something--a shirt, possibly--to Seb’s temple, looking disgusted. “And you’re going to clean this up.” 

“Yeah, boss.” It’s Jim who’s splayed backwards now, propped up on his elbows, and Seb who bends over him, mouth around his cock, Jim watching, breathing harder as Sebastian takes more of him, one hand steadying himself against the floor, one hand between his own legs. Jim knots his fingers in Seb’s hair, forcing him faster, deeper, and then groans, yanks him away. 

“Bed. Now. On your hands and  _knees,_ Sebastian, and don’t you  _dare_ come before I do. You’re in enough trouble  _already_.”

Seb moves fast. He’s out of the danger zone, but not far out, and Jim, when he’s like this, when he’s worked himself halfway to climax, bloody and panting long before Seb even gets a hand on him, turns quickly. The bed is disconcertingly neat compared to the rest of the room, but Sebastian only has a minute to take it in before Jim is behind him with condom and lube, cock hard against the tops of Seb’s thighs. 

He’s not gentle. Jim never is, he doesn’t know how to be, and Seb doesn’t fucking  _care_ because Seb has never understood gentleness in his whole damn  _life_ , and what he wants is Jim, this insane man who is even now striking him again and again across the back with--a belt maybe? with all his strength, to fuck him, and now. 

“Boss,” he manages, between the blows making his whole body shiver in pain and desire. “Boss. Please.  _Fuck,_  boss,  _please.”_

__Jim slips one finger inside him, then two, and Seb makes a sound he _knows_  he should be ashamed of making as Jim pushes into him, three fingers, and then Sebastian clutches at the mattress as they flex and withdraw. Behind him Moriarty laughs and then, almost without prelude, he is thrusting into Seb, one arm circling the taller man’s hips, belly lain against Seb’s back. 

“Jim--”

“Shut up.”

“--Jim,  _fuck--”_

__“Doing--my best, Sebby--baby--” He is laughing, fingernails dug into Seb’s side, lines of pain against his ribs, free hand loosely circling Seb’s cock so that he snarls in frustration, slams his fist into the pillows.

“Say please.”

__“You fucking-- _please.”_

Jim begins to stroke in time with his thrusts, still giggling, and Seb pushes back into him, feeling the heat start to build beneath’s Jim’s hand. 

“Jim, I can’t--”

“Don’t you fucking  _dare,_  Seb--” And then Moriarty is throwing back his head and making the noise that always sends Sebastian right over the edge, something between a moan and a gasp and the low, rough laugh he tries not to let Jim know he loves.

Seb lets himself drop full-length on the bed, Jim a solid weight against his back. A sharp chin digs into his spine, shifts sideways. Cool lips touch his shoulder, his bicep, and then a slender finger flicks him in the side of the head. He twists his neck, meets Jim’s eyes, smiles. 

“I’ve made myself clear?” Moriarty is already collecting himself, eyes fading from black to dark brown, but there’s a hint of warning in him still. 

“Crystal, boss.”

“Good.” 

Sebastian reaches up and back, smoothes Jim’s hair. He is already thinking, ticking through his options, filing away the small ways he can pop three stitches out of a seam, loosen a button, wear his hair a little too long or his trousers a little too short. Seb believes, with everything he has, that of the two of them, Jim is prettier. 

And it’s his job, now, to make sure Jim knows it too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics are taken from Mumford and Son's "I Gave You All", and yes, I know I do that a lot.


End file.
